


Coping Mechanisms

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Code Black (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Christmas, Code Black Secret Santa, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:25:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5478125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But the calendar flies by, like always, and next thing she knows, colorful tinsel and tiny lights are spreading like a virus throughout the city.</p><p>Leanne Rorish doesn't care for Christmas anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coping Mechanisms

**Author's Note:**

> Written for leannerorish on Tumblr for the Code Black Secret Santa. You said you liked sad fanfic and Leanne, so I hope you like this. Happy holidays!

Day by day, one foot in front of the other.

Leanne's given up on finding understanding, on healing. Painful days have stretched into painful years. Once-broken bones will ache, scarred muscles will burn, and she'll try to anesthetize herself with a hot shower and some pills, or maybe whiskey, if she's not on call. It helps, but it's no cure, and does nothing for the ache in her chest.

She works. Buries herself in medicine, in fighting to keep others alive. If she can defeat another death, perhaps she can fill some of the void that's taken hold of her soul. Perhaps the endless blur of patients will make her forget the faces she will never see again. Perhaps the incessant scream of heart monitors will drown the sound of voices she will never hear again. There are worse ways to cope than by saving lives, if she can even call what she's doing "coping."

"It's more like you're drowning your sorrows," Jesse says, sitting across from her at a restaurant table. "Only instead of crawling into a bottle like this one, you're crawling into the job.

"Then again..." He picks up her bottle and makes a face. "I'm not sure you could drown your sorrows with this stuff." Leanne laughs. "With how much it'd take to get drunk off of this crap, you could afford to get some real alcohol. I'm not even jealous you get to drink this and I don't."

Jesse sets down her bottle, and leans forward, his expression serious, more Mama now than Jesse. "I'm not gonna ask if you're okay," he says, "'cause I know a stupid question when I see it. And I'm not gonna tell you I'm here for you, or that I'm not gonna judge you for doing what you gotta do, because I know you already know that."

"I do," Leanne says, nodding. She can hear the lingering "but" in his voice. "But?"

"But nothing." He stabs a piece of lettuce with his fork. "I just wanted to remind you that you could talk to me in a way you might actually listen to. Especially with the holidays coming up. I know Christmas is pretty rough."

"Oh, don't do that, Mama." Leanne scowls. "I came here for dinner with a friend, not a therapy session."

Jesse holds up his hands, fork still clutched between two fingers, and vinaigrette drips from the skewered piece of lettuce onto the table. "Hey, it was only a reminder. I didn't really expect you to take me up on it right now. You've been doing pretty good with living like I told you to do. I'm proud of you. But I also know living's not easy, so remember: Mama is always just a phone call away from Daddy."

"I know." She gives him a small smile. "Thank you."

"Anytime. Day, night, middle of a shift—if things get too tough, you call me, all right? Just 'cause my heart's a little messed up right now doesn't mean it's not useful anymore. It's still working." He balls up his fist and thumps it against his chest. "Which means that it's still here for you."

She wishes that were enough, that a few conversations could lessen the hurt. But the calendar flies by, like always, and next thing she knows, colorful tinsel and tiny lights are spreading like a virus throughout the city. Streaks of red, green, and gold creep along every surface they can reach, joined by tiny white or rainbow bulbs and far too many cartoon Santas.

And the noise—if the TV and radio aren't shouting about Christmas and big deals, they're filling the air with overplayed Christmas songs about hope and family and joy. There's always something else that people want, and they always seem to forget who they already have. It's amazing how much people take for granted. Amazing how little they understand the ones who've lost everything that mattered. Amazing how little _she_ understands.

"I feel like the Grinch," Christa says, with a wry smile, as they both dodge the staff Christmas party. Leanne can't help noticing the dark circles around Christa's eyes, the sadness in them. "I used to love this time of year, but God, I just...I hate it. I want it to go away." Christa lets out a laugh. "Never would've thought I'd be someone who hated Christmas, but there you go."

 _Losing your entire world changes everything,_ Leanne doesn't say. Christa isn't her, and she isn't Christa. Being friendly doesn't make them friends. They're teacher and student, acquaintances at best. And they're different, no matter what Christa may think.

No matter how much of herself Leanne sometimes sees in Christa.

Christa's smile turns awkward, and she murmurs, "Right," clearly disappointed by Leanne's silence. Leanne doesn't really care, to be honest—not enough for it to matter. But Christa doesn't seem bothered for long. She comes over and leans against the locker beside Leanne's. "Merry Christmas, Dr. Rorish," she says. "Or bah humbug, whatever you prefer."

"The latter," Leanne says, then forces herself to add, "Thank you, Dr. Lorenson," after a moment's thought. "And the same to you—bah humbug or Merry Christmas, whichever you prefer."

Before anyone else can catch her in a conversation, Leanne heads home, back to a dark and empty apartment. Bone-weary, she trudges into the kitchen, dropping off her jacket on the couch along the way. Drowning her sorrows in alcohol instead of work sounds more appealing than letting them catch up to her, so she grabs herself a dusty bottle of whiskey from the back of a cabinet, and she drinks.

Jack doesn't judge her when she sits on the edge of the counter and kicks off her sneakers, just goes down her throat in a slow and satisfying burn. She drinks straight from the bottle, and silently begs the buzz to kick in sooner, begs the booze to fill that void in her chest faster, faster, faster, begs it to mute her mind enough for her to sleep.

It's Christmas morning, and she wants to forget. It's Christmas morning, and she wants to sleep the day away. It's Christmas morning, and she wants to be unconscious, not sitting on her kitchen counter and crying into a bottle of Jack Daniels.

It doesn't take long for her to meet her goal, for the alcohol to catch up and drag her down. _You're turning into a lightweight, aren't you, Leanne?_ a voice that sounds like Jesse's jokes in her head. She staggers to bed, part-drunk, part-exhausted, and falls asleep almost instantly, thank God.

For once, Leanne doesn't dream—a true Christmas miracle. When she heads in to work that night, she feels almost like herself, ready to face another day of _day by day, one foot in front of the other._ Her head aches, her heart hurts, but for better or worse, she's still breathing. That's the best she can hope for, for now.


End file.
